


Frogs & Perfume

by felici4no



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Magic, Nationverse, also just. wtf is this about dont ask me idk, dont even look at me i dont know where this came from i never even liked england, the other relationships will start popping up as it goes along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22224445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felici4no/pseuds/felici4no
Summary: “Dude,” spluttered America. “What are you wearing? You look like Gay Merlin.”“Gay Merlin?!”---In which England makes a love potion for no one in particular, and things go wrong.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia), America/Russia (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), Minor or Background Relationship(s), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 107





	1. England Fucks Up

**Author's Note:**

> hahahah my attempt at ye olde english AND latin  
> im a latin student and i was too lazy to even write the tiniest fraction of a spell myself can u believe.  
> anyways i hope u like this!! i already have another chapter written SO theres that at least

It all started with magic. As most things did, really, when it came to England. 

As he noticed Valentine’s Day growing nearer, England had exhumed his ancient spell-book from its hiding place,  and  gathered all of the accurate ingredients, despite their rarity. He’d worn his best twelfth-century robes, patterned with roses, and polished his favourite goblin-made cauldron. Its cast iron, now sleek and black, gleamed invitingly on the fireplace, practically begging to be used. 

The finishing touch was England’s old pointed hat. It stood straight on his head, meticulously embroidered with silver stars that, when hit by sunlight, glimmered rather beautifully. A good wizard, of course, was nothing without a good hat — and England was rather proud of his, crafted centuries ago by an old witch in Scotland. He puffed out his chest and stuck up his chin, feeling all the more admirable—  


His train of thought was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious laugh. “Dude,” spluttered America. “What are you _wearing?_ You look like Gay Merlin.”

_“Gay Merlin?!”_

Ahem. Back to the point. 

England was attempting a rather advanced love potion, you see. A love potion for—well, it doesn't matter, as he hadn’t been planning to _use_ it on anyone—why, of course not! How dare you imply…as if he were some enamoured schoolgirl…Christ! Someone as dignified and refined as England would never stoop to such levels of treachery, not in a hundred years. Or, well, a thousand. No, this potion was a small, harmless experiment, nothing more. A way to test his own skills, amuse himself with a long-forgotten art…

“Why’s that frog just standing there?”

“Shut it, America.”

Right. 

———

“Would you stay still, for God’s sake?” England snapped. 

America squirmed some more. “It’s damn hard to do that when you’re rubbing that thing on my arm!” He complained. “Seriously, what is that?”

“Bloody Spanish moss, this is!” He retorted, outraged. “ _Tillandsia usneoides,_ Alfred, picked fresh from Bermuda—”

“Tee-lan-zee-what?” Groaned America. “And don’t call me Alfred, man, you only did that when I was a colony.”

England gave him a truly commendable glare. America stuck out his tongue.

“Stop whinging on about your bloody arm, and _stop moving._ Truly, America, can’t you see how serious this is?”

“You won’t even tell me what this potion’s for,” He objected. “And I can’t take you seriously when you look like Dumbledore. No offence.”

“I hate you.”

From its corner, the frog croaked in agreement. 

“Why are you _rubbing_ it on me, anyway? It feels kinda pointless,” continued America, giving him a shove. “Look, my skin’s starting to go green!”

“It’s not _pointless,_ you git. See, it says here…” England retorted, picking up his musty, tattered spell-book. The title, _Dark_ _Spelles for Shrivel-Hearted Witches and Wizards,_ was barely readable under a layer of grime.

America shuddered. “That thing looks evil.”  


“It is,” replied England. Its thick leather binding was starting to come undone in some places, hinting at its old age—and whenever he turned one of its yellowed pages, a layer of dust would lift into the air, making both of them cough. He cleared his throat and started reciting. 

“ _O’ Reader of these wretch'd pages, hark carefully to mine own w’rds—_ ah, bollocks, that’s too early on.” England’s eyes skimmed over the jumble of exotic ingredients and cryptic instructions until they found the passage he needed. “ _Thou must obtaine the herbe that is knowne as the mosse of Spain, found in lands of great distance. Aft’r finding the af'remention'd herbe, thou must encase the plante in the scent of one thee careth for._ See? Rubbing it on should do… _”_

_“England,”_ Gushed America. _“I’m_ the one you care for?”

England scrunched up his nose and shared a look with his frog. “Dear God, Alfred. You'll make Lilybeth nauseous.”

"You named your frog _Lilybeth?"_

"It's a perfectly respectable frog name— _ STOP LAUGHING." _

———

“That should be enough,” He said after a little while. America’s arm was starting to look a little red, and the plant a little wilted. He cleared his throat awkwardly and tossed it inside his cauldron, all dark and menacing. The potion bubbled harshly for a few moments, then turned a pleasant shade of pink, pearly and smooth. 

“Nice!” 

“Yes, it does seem to be getting on quite well,” observed England, satisfied. He’d followed every step perfectly—the potion even _smelled_ wonderful, like roses and French perfume and French shampoo and French—

Bollocks. 

England frowned and looked at his spell-book, face flushed red. He couldn’t let America notice. With great effort, he directed his mind back to the only remaining step of the potion. It required the collaboration of another person—well, he had America for that, didn’t he? And the incantation itself seemed quite simple—common Medieval Latin, nothing more…

True, _Beware the final phase!_ was printed on the pages in large, ominous script, but England wasn’t worried, not at all. _Thou must complete this act with great care,_ said the first line _—_ Hah! Rubbish! No, England was a great wizard. Nothing would go wrong, as long as America did as he was told.

England picked up his frog. “You’ll bring me luck, isn’t that right?” He muttered, staring into its beady little eyes. 

Lilybeth didn’t answer, but England decided to take that as a yes. 

He straightened his hat and turned abruptly to face America, who was sniffing the air with closed eyes and an enchanted grin. 

“Right! I’ve only to do one last thing,” he announced grandly, fixing America with a determined stare. His friend blinked behind his glasses and shook his head a couple of times, evidently breaking out of his love-potion-induced trance. 

Then he gulped. “England? Why are you looking at me like that?”

———

“Don’t you start making a fuss over nothing!” England snapped as he threw the white fabric over America’s tall, muscular body. 

“This is so creepy, dude. What if something goes wrong?”

“Rubbish!”

“And your frog keeps staring at me. Why’s it staring? I don’t like it.”

“Christ, stop talking!”

“Englaaaaaaaand,” whined America, voice muffled by the sheets. “Great Britain. Arthur. Man, I have such a bad feeling about this…"

All he could do was scoff. "I refuse to believe you'd doubt my marvelous magical abilities." 

"When even was the last time you did magic?”

He stopped to consider. “The eighteenth century, I reckon.”

"WHAT? Not that time when you..."

"We don't talk about that time." It had involved nudity, donkeys, and many, many years of no one talking to him. England tried not to think about it, ever. "And _that_ spell was much more complex."

America’s reply came in the form of a pained moan. 

“Right.” Said England impatiently, and smacked the Alfred-shaped lump in front of him when it tried to edge away. Hard. “I swear to Christ, America, keep moving and I’ll hex your arsehole shut.”

That seemed to do the trick.

It was quite simple, really—England had to read out the individual phrases of the spell, and for each one America had to say a one-word incantation back, loud and clear. Just like church, really!  Except it was witchcraft, because the two things can be surprisingly similar and equally evil.

England took a deep breath, opening his arms wide over the cauldron. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. He looked down at the spellbook and began to recite the incantation.

_“Ad amorem…”_ He paused. 

_“Factum!”_ America said back, in his clumsy accent. 

England nodded—so far, so good. 

“ _Primo luna crescente in die Venus in ortu solis…”_ He continued, and then paused. Had he just said Venus…? England squinted at the dusty page, bowing his head lower. Yes, the book clearly said _Veneris—_ how silly! He’d read it wrong. “Wait, America…” He started, not bothering to look up, but it was too late. 

_“Factum!”_ America exclaimed. 

England glanced over at his friend, ready to admonish him, but could only stare in horror as he saw the white sheets fall to the ground with a strangely graceful _thump_. “Bloody hell!” He shouted, feeling his heart burst out of his chest. His panicked mind conjured the spellbook's clear, large warning: _Beware the final phase…_ “America! I’ve killed him! I’ve killed my best friend!”

He raced to the bundle of white cloth, expecting to find America unconscious or injured beneath it, and instead—

Well. Fucking shit. 

America was gone. Disappeared. Utterly absent. 

———

After a little while of staring at the empty spot where his friend had been a few minutes before, a croak came from behind him. 

England looked at his frog. Lilybeth looked straight back. 

And then he knew what to do. 


	2. France Is So, So Annoying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “France. Francis. France!” He spoke, words brimming with urgency. “I’m an utter fool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i pepper in like 2 historical references that i dont understand

He sat down, made a nice cup of tea, and then—with a pained sigh—prepared to call the most irritating, self-obsessed, condescending person he knew. 

Yes, desperate times called for desperate measures, and the future of America was at stake: it had to be done. England was going to put away his staggering amounts of pride, and ask his sworn enemy for help. 

_Francis Bonnefoy._

You see, England had a plan. Without a doubt, he’d manage to solve everything in the blink of an eye. After all, bringing someone back from a hypothetical realm of nothingness couldn’t be _all_ that difficult, could it? Yes, perhaps he was just a little concerned, that was all, but thankfully that cup of tea had done quite a good job of bottling up the more unpleasant feelings, putting them right back where they belonged. 

The 'plan' consisted of three, simple steps: call France, find a counter-spell, and cast it. He couldn’t think of anything else to do, and France was his best choice if he didn't want to get into a considerable amount of trouble. You see, the truth was that England had been _banned_ from practicing any form of magic after that infamous time in the eighteenth century—completely. Fuming, a handful of the most powerful nations had gathered in one of England’s small towns, and (with the use of various forceful threats) had forced him to sign some kind of secret nation-exclusive treaty. France had laughed his pretty laugh, of course, and made fun of him for years afterwards—smirking, narrowing his eyes, tossing his hair and mentioning _that time with the donkeys, Angleterre,_ all over again, until England was red in the face and shaking him by his over-priced shirt collar. America had never found out about this small detail—at the time, he had been much too busy throwing British cargo into the sea, all caught up in his rebellious teenage phase.

France was England's worst enemy. The person he’d clashed with over and over again, ceaselessly, tirelessly. His rival. But England knew, most likely, that the bastard would be the one nation that would keep its big mouth shut. Why, you ask? Frankly, after all the time they’d spent fighting and reconciling and dancing around each other, the sheer amount of things they’d both seen...England had _hundreds of years_ worth of blackmail material, and vice-versa, so much that it had become their very own silent, unwritten treaty— _I Won't Tell If You Don't._ Or something like that. 

So he whipped out his fancy smartphone, dialled France’s number, and waited. 

—

“What is it, Angleterre?” A drowsy voice snarled in his ear, more accented than usual. Judging by his tone, he’d been asleep; England could not help but picture him waking up from some heavenly afternoon nap, sunlight gracing his features. Maybe half-naked, too...

“France. Francis. France!” He spoke, words brimming with urgency. “I’m an utter fool.”

Unsurprisingly, France's reaction was not remotely concerned, but rather delightfully amused. “Please, Arthur, my old friend,” he yawned, dragging out the words. “I have known you for enough years to know that! I hope that is not why you have called me at such an indecent hour…” 

“You lazy bastard,” scoffed England. “Woke you up, did I?”

Some shuffling, a sleepy sigh. “ _Oui._ How impolite, Angleterre, to disturb a man after four o’clock!”

England scoffed again, unable to suppress a small smirk, because to tell the truth arguing with France had become a hobby of sorts, after so many years. Just as he opened his mouth to make some snarky remark about Frenchmen and their ridiculous sleeping habits, he was stopped by a loud croak. Lilybeth was staring at him through glassy, reproaching eyes, crouching next to where the white sheets were lying abandoned on the ground—a silent accusation, if England had ever seen one.  _Concentrate,_ he told himself— _God’s sake, concentrate!_

“France, the problem’s that I’ve _done_ something foolish, you see.”

Another yawn, then a derisive snort. “Hah! Surely not as foolish as your politics, Arthur. That reminds me—your ridiculous maneuver at that conference the other day…the _Direction général_ e and I were laughing our asses off for days!”

In the midst of his desperation, England felt a deep, deep twinge of irritation.

_“My_ maneuver?” He scoffed, forgetting his resolve. “Shall I bring up what your bloody oaf of a President did yesterday, or—“

“You know nothing. His political actions have a subtlety that you could never understand, Angleterre—“

England laughed harshly. “Rubbish. I could see right through that bastard’s ghastly, fat head!“

“Hm!” Sniffed France. “Well, if we are going to speak of ghastly, fat things, I noticed your Queen was—“

“ _Right,_ ” England interjected, rolling his eyes. “Listen to me right this moment, Rapunzel. You can shove that attitude right back up your soggy arsehole, or I’ll—” 

A flippant, infuriating laugh sounded on the other side of the phone. 

“Oh, stop laughing,” He said, annoyance getting the best of him. _“_ God’s sake, how old are you? Twelve?”

“ _Mon Dieu!_ ” Sighed France, after he’d ceased his obnoxious snickering. “Truly, I have not laughed so hard since that time with the donkeys, Angleterre!” 

_Again?_ “And you haven’t acted so bloody stupid since Agincourt!” 

“Ah! Touché.”  


“Will you listen, you old pervert? _”_

There was a pause, then France’s lilting voice sounded in his ear again. “Hm. I suppose I will. What is it that you want, _rosbif_?”

England took a deep breath to steady himself, gritted his teeth, and straightened his back. “I. Erm—how do I say this? I need your help.”

France mock-gasped, clearly delighted. “Oh! You, the great England, are asking me for assistance? I am flattered.”

With a generous amount of self-control, and another look at the white bedsheets, he decided to ignore the jibe. “You see, Francis, it’s America. He’s _departed,_ so to say, and—“  


“Oh.” Said France, voice strangely flat, all of a sudden. “I see. You have come to me for love advice,” he finished coldly.

_“Love advice?”_

He gave a dramatic sigh, and England _knew_ the bastard was rolling his stupid blue eyes. “Naturally! Just as everyone else! But I will allow it from you, Angleterre. It is not your fault, of course, that you have never had an ounce of charm in your life.”

“Bloody hell!” Exclaimed England, enraged. “That’s not what I—“

“Ask all you want, _s'il vous plaît,”_ France interrupted. “What did you do to make that idiotic American leave you? Of course, you do not know anything. We Frenchmen know how to make a person stay! Indeed, you and your people can only wish to achieve the great seductive power of the French spirit…” 

For a few seconds, England let him blather on, shaking his head. God, he was an arsehole. A beautiful arsehole, of course, but the two things could not be separated.

“François Bonnefoy, you frog!” He exclaimed, though he had to send Lilybeth an apologetic glance. _“_ Shut that big mouth of yours, will you? I demand you be serious—”

“Mon Dieu, how boring! Always with this being _serious!”_ said Francis, sounding annoyed that his monologue had been interrupted. “And here I thought you could not possibly be more bleak, _mon ami…”_

Whatever other nonsense Francis was about to spew from his irritatingly perfect mouth was lost to England’s ears, as the words were covered by a loud, unexpected gurgling from behind him. 

More specifically, from his potion, which he hadn’t even looked at in the past twenty-five minutes.

Now, having had plenty of horrifying experiences with both cooking and potion-making (his failures in the former had, to England’s utter dismay, reached a legendary status) England knew a few things concerning both: one of these was that this was probably never a good sign. The potion seemed to have acquired a life of its own—not only was it bubbling wildly inside its cauldron, but the lovely pink shade from earlier had transformed into a passionate, blinding red, a color that reminded him alarmingly of…oh, God.

England watched in horror as the cauldron spilled some of its contents on his precious wooden floor. On the phone, France was still talking. 

Inevitably, his composure slipped away as the panic he had felt earlier flooded back onto him with a single, icy wave.

“WON’T YOU LISTEN!” He roared into the phone, not caring if some unsuspecting human neighbor heard him. “I THINK I KILLED HIM! I THINK I KILLED AMERICA!” 

His heart was pounding hard in his chest. England pulled off his robes with shaky hands, noticing that sweat was beginning to stain the beautiful fabric. _Bloody hell,_ he thought to himself— _I’m not built for this._ Planned murder wasn’t a problem—not _really_ —but accidental? God, he needed a drink…

_“What?”_

“You heard me!”

A long, heavy silence followed. England could see it so clearly in his mind’s eye that, in another situation, he might have laughed: Francis Bonnefoy, lounging on some velvet couch, hair glinting and mouth agape. 

“Ah…” For once, he seemed to be at loss of words. “Metaphorically?”

Dear God. _“Not. Metaphorically.”_

“I suppose you cannot explain this over the phone _?”_

England snarled. “What are you, stupid?”

“Ehm,” France tried again, though his voice had lost all of its humour. “Angleterre, my friend—we are immortals. Surely you do not mean—America cannot be—”

_“FRANCIS,”_ yelled England, losing his patience once more, “HE’S GONE!”

“Gone?” 

“Gone, Francis. _Gone!”  
_

There was another pause. When France spoke again, he was terrifyingly solemn. “Code Entente Cordiale?”

England nodded gravely. “Code Entente Cordiale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this with 1 braincell


	3. Please Tone Down the Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t their first time, of course. France and England had a long history of…well, whatever this was. These moments. They were becoming increasingly good at forgetting, England noticed, so good that sometimes he was able to convince himself that he’d just imagined it, that nothing had ever lapsed between them… 
> 
> Yes. There had been moments.

“You were making a love potion,” said France.

“Yes. And I got the spell wrong. And America disappeared!”

“You were making a love potion, and you got the spell wrong, and America disappeared,” he repeated, looking amused. 

_“Yes,” s_ aid England, and covered his face with his hands.

They were standing in front of the fireplace, staring at the spot where America had been less than an hour before. France had shown up at his house straight after his phone call, bottle of wine in hand, and had kissed him on both cheeks. His golden hair had been perfectly tousled; his white shirt artfully crumpled. Even straight out of bed, he could look effortlessly, distractingly beautiful. Arthur couldn’t stand him. 

“So this is the potion?” France asked as he knelt to look into the cauldron. He took two deep, appreciative breaths. “Angleterre! Your cooking is horrible, but this—it is heavenly.”

“Thanks,” snapped England. And then, with a masochistic sort of curiosity: “Erm, what do you smell?”

Francis seemed to consider, inhaling deeply. “It’s strange,” he began, but cut himself off abruptly, a strange new expression dawning on his face. _Just as well,_ thought Arthur—it was better if he didn’t know. Jealousy was a painful thing, after all. “Why? It is different for you?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s different for everyone.”

“I see. And what do you smell, Angleterre?”

England crossed his arms and frowned, feeling himself blush red. “None of your business.”

An awkward silence followed. Finally, France spoke. “Well? What is your plan? Surely you have one?” He asked in a tone of irritating indifference. 

England sighed, running one hand through his hair. It looked hideous, no doubt—the fact that France hadn’t commented was practically a miracle, although he was looking at it as though it had personally offended him. “Right. We’ll have to find some sort of reversing spell—something that can bring him back. Unless he’s…” Well. it was better to not think about _that_ possibility. “I have many, many spell-books…it’ll take a long time, most likely.”

“Long time? How long?”

England groaned. “Christ, France, I don’t have a damned crystal ball,” he said. (Well. He did, but hadn’t used it in years.) “Few hours, if we’re very lucky.”

France shrugged, narrowing his eyes at him. “Where are these books of magic you speak about?”

———

England led him into the next room, then to the kitchen, where most of the potion-making had taken place. There were still bits and bobs of everything laying around, making for a rather grotesque picture—snake eyeballs here, dried lizard tongues there. 

France shuddered. “This is what you put in your food?”  
  
“Be quiet, I’m trying to concentrate,” England replied as he fumbled around, looking for a specific tile in the wall. Was it the one on the top, or on the bottom…? “There!” 

A cleverly concealed trapdoor swung open near France, making him jump and gasp.

England smirked. “After you.”  


Theatrical as ever, France pinched his nose, took a deep breath, and started walking down the steep stairs and into the darkness, followed closely by England, who pulled the trapdoor shut behind him.

“What is this place?” France’s voice came from the darkness.

“Old hideout of mine. I come here when I’m stressed.”

“Reminds me of the catacombs…” 

“Wait just a second, let me find the light switch—OUCH, THAT WAS MY FOOT!”

“Sorry. I’ll move over.” England heard a shuffle, then something that sounded suspiciously like someone tripping over their own feet. “GAH! _Merde!”_

“France?” he called, concerned. “Are you alright?”  


A groan. “Perhaps. Help me up…”

England reached over blindly, somehow finding France’s outstretched hand and pulling him forward. He underestimated his own strength, however, and they both lost balance, toppling backward against the wall.

“How romantic,” France muttered from on top of him. 

“Sentimental old bastard…”

There was another shuffle, and this time they both stood separately, finding their balance without any further complications. England found he was short of breath…and was that France’s heartbeat thumping in the silence of the cellar? No, he must be imagining it. 

“Move over, I think you’re standing in front of the switch…”

“I cannot see anything. What if I fall again?”

England growled and resolutely thrust a hand to the wall behind France, getting uncomfortably close once more. “You’re forcing me—“

A gasp. “Angleterre, that was my—“

“For God’s sake, if you’d just move—Aha!” England found the switch, flicked it on, and was met with France’s face only a few centimeters away from his. “Ah, sorry, sorry…” he muttered, stepping away.

He turned to look at the scene in front of him. Books, old and dark and dusty, covered every wall of the room in countless rows. Despite the lack of natural light, it was rather beautiful, England thought—or maybe he was just a big reader with no friends. Either way, France seemed to be rather impressed with it too. England watched him as he surveyed the room with his blue, blue eyes, long eyelashes forming shadows on his cheeks. 

“Angleterre,” he said feebly, “I am begging you to tell me these are not all spell-books.”

He found the strength to laugh. “God, no! Those are over there…” England pointed to a section of the library that looked distinctly evil, covered in spiderwebs and mold. “Careful. Some of them bite.”

France wrinkled his pointy nose, looking at the dust and the dirt. “Do you think there are rats down here?”

“No!” England exclaimed. “Well, alright, maybe. Don't be a priss."

The two men stood in silence at the bottom of the broad shelf, looking at the long rows of musty spell-books, before exchanging a knowing glance. 

“I bet I’ll find it before you.”  


“Not a fucking chance.”

———

Hours were passing and neither of them had found anything helpful at all. England was starting to panic, and even France began to look tired, hair sticking in every direction.

“I can’t reach that book up there…Angleterre, do you have a stool?” 

“Move over, I’m sure I can reach,” England said, striding towards him. 

“Please, England, I am taller than you,” scoffed France. 

“Not at all!” He protested. “Want to bet?”

France crossed his arms. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Exactly. And I was sure we’d established that you’re at least two millimeters shorter.”

“I believe that it was the complete opposite!” 

“Well, maybe one of us has grown since we last checked!” To be fair, it _had_ been on a drunken night at least three hundred years ago.

“Alright then,” France said like a challenge. “Come closer.”

England edged forward until they were almost nose to nose, then gulped. This was the second time today he’d found himself this close to France, and it was becoming addictive. Intoxicating. “You’re really going to measure with your _hand?”_ he protested hoarsely. 

“Yes,” France murmured, lifting an arm and looking straight into his eyes. “As I like to say, one can do almost anything with…”

Then something strange happened. France trailed off, brought his hand to their heads, and then—with fingers light as feathers, he brushed England’s hair off his forehead. 

England’s brain short-circuited. In a moment of madness, feeling his heart almost beat out of his chest, he leaned closer. The tips of their noses brushed, and then…

France’s phone rang, the noise echoing across the cellar.

Both of them jumped back, and it was like nothing had ever happened.

———

This wasn’t their _first_ time, of course. France and England had a long history of…well, whatever this was. These _moments._ They were becoming increasingly good at forgetting, England noticed, so good that sometimes he was able to convince himself that he’d just imagined it, that nothing had ever lapsed between them… 

Yes. There had been moments.

———

“England?”  


“Yes?” he replied gloomily.  


“Look at this,” France said, shoving an open spell-book at him. “Is this not exactly the type of thing you need?”

England grabbed the book and began to skim over the spell, squinting slightly.

_Spelle to Bring Back Lost Soules…_

“Holy Christ!” he yelled. “France, this is perfect! It's just what we needed!" he began to mentally tick off the ingredients he had, not really looking at the procedure. "WE DID IT! WE’RE GETTING AMERICA BACK!”

France broke into a broad smile, an unguarded expression England had rarely had the pleasure to see on him. He could only smile back, the urge to kiss him stronger than ever. 

“I won the bet.”  


Arthur cuffed him over the head, too relieved to add any venom in his voice when he said, “I believe you’ll be celebrating by opening that wonderful bottle of wine you brought me…”

————-

_“_ So then he said, you’ll piss yourself laughing at this one, he said—” England was laughing too hard, rendering him unable to finish his sentence. France was in a similar situation, wiping tears from his eyes, clutching at his stomach.

It must have been past midnight, and they were sitting at England’s kitchen table, shirts unbuttoned, clutching a wine glass in their hands. 

“Well,” Francis spoke after their laughter had died down. He poured more in both their glasses, setting the bottle down with a flourish. “To America! To Alfred!” He proclaimed, raising his glass.

“To Alfred!” England sobbed, downing his glass in a single gulp. 

“You seem…very happy,” Francis slurred after doing the same. 

Arthur blinked, staring at him through bleary eyes. What a weird thing to say… ”Happy? I’m fucking ecstatic!”  


“You must have missed him.”

Well, it had only been a day, but the guilt and fear had taken their toll. “I suppose?”

“You know, Angleterre,” France said absently, taking a sip of his wine. “I think you should just tell him.”

England stared at him, head reeling from the alcohol. “Huh? What?”

“That you love him,” France hiccupped. “Tell him that you love him…”

“France, I—who?”

“America, you imbecile!”

Arthur blinked. Then he began to laugh raucously, clutching at his stomach, taking deep gulps of air. “America—tell him I—that’s _absurd—"_

“Stop laughing!” Instructed France, wine sloshing around in his glass. _“L’amour_ is never something to laugh about, Angleterre, you heartless man…”

“But Francis—“ Arthur spluttered, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I don’t _love_ America. I could never!”

France looked at him strangely. “What?”

“Well, of course I love him,” England amended. “But I could never, you know, _love_ him. He’s my…” Best friend? Son? Brother? Arthur didn’t know, exactly, but he also knew that the feelings between him and America were strictly familial. 

For some reason, France’s somber expression got him to stop laughing at once, finding a sliver of sobriety. “Erm, France?”

“I always thought you loved him,” he said in barely more than a whisper.

England couldn’t help it. He started to laugh again. “And you call yourself the country of love, you sad old bastard?”  


France got up, stumbling slightly, grabbing his fancy jacket. “Angleterre, it is very late, I think I should leave…”

“What? No!” England cried, unable to restrain himself. “France, stay here. You’re drunk.”

“So are you. You don’t know what you’re saying…”

_“What?”  
_

“Really, I can call some agent to bring me back…”  


England scowled, got up, and grabbed France’s wrist. “France. I am formally asking you to stay. Just as a formality. A diplomatic favor, if you will.”

He looked down at England’s hand on his wrist, before sighing. “Well,” he slurred. “If it’s a diplomatic favor…”

They went back to drinking as though the strange exchange had never happened. 

———

“Angleterre,” whispered France. “Are you still awake?”

“Yes.” They were lying in his bed, shoulder to shoulder, as England frantically tried to slow down the pace of his heart. It certainly wasn’t the first time they had slept next to each other like this—how many times had then done it in the trenches, during the Great War?—but Arthur was still drunk, and the world seemed to be spinning much too fast. 

“If it wasn’t for America, then who was the love potion for?”

England froze. “Christ, cheese-breath, didn’t I say it was none of your business?”

“So you have nothing you want to tell me?”

No way, England thought. No, no, no, no. France wasn’t implying…? He didn’t know, right? He could barely breathe, whipping his head around to stare at him. He felt like such a coward…France was giving him the chance, right here, right now, to come clean. Something had changed. Something had changed, and yet denying his feelings for a certain irritating Frenchman had become a _part_ of England. After all, he’d had a thousand years of practice.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he choked out. "You're drunk, we're drunk..."

There was a silence before France spoke quietly. “Alright. Well, I hope the spell goes well tomorrow. And I hope we get America back in perfect condition, even though he’ll go right back to screwing with my foreign affairs…” 

“Shut it, Frog,” said England, but for some reason, he found he was smiling. 

Right as he was drifting off to sleep, he thought he felt a hand slip into his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmm this was rushed


End file.
